Almost Perfect
by MurphPolo13
Summary: EOW. Two years after the tragedy at the Opera Populaire, Erik finds himself wishing for death, when a new ballerina with a familiar name and tremendous talent comes to work there. He takes her on as a student...and learn she is more than she claims to be.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera. I've just borrowed the characters and I promise I'll try to return them in one piece.

A/N: This story is based mainly on the 2004 Movie. My Phantom is and always will be Gerard Butler. droooools OK. This is just a little experiment—I haven't written any fanfiction in five years, and I'm a little rusty. All I ask is that you review politely. Constructive criticism is always welcome, as I'm always looking to improve as a writer, but I really won't be happy if someone says something along the lines of "You suck! Michael Crawford rocks my world!" Please, people. Let's all just enjoy ourselves, no?

**Prologue**

Then she left. She placed the ring, glittering in the candlelight, in his palm and just like that, she was gone. He sat spellbound, frozen for a time as he stared at the engagement ring, so beautiful and delicate, so flawless and elegant, like his Christine. Reality began to seep into the edges of his hazy consciousness as their voices echoed across the loch; she would never be his.

Meg Giry trudged through the underground lake, the first to gaze upon the Phantom's lair. The mob searched for hours amongst the candelabras, shattered mirrors and scattered sheets of music, but the Opera Ghost was nowhere to be found. Within months, the memories had faded and the myth of the Phantom of the Opera became nothing more than a ghost story once again.

For two years after the new owners of the Opera Populaire had fully restored the theater, Erik wandered through the hallways and corridors behind the mirror, more a ghost than he had ever been. A shell of the man he once was, his mournful cries occasionally echoed through the backstage corridors of the opera house. People dismissed the eerie noises as the wind or included them in the tales of the Opera Ghost, never thinking that they came from a real man in pain. Erik pleaded for death to take him every day, yet it never came. Each morning he opened his eyes and realized anew that he would never awaken in the arms of his perfect mate. Christine Daae would never return to him. Little did he know that the name of Daae would not abandon his life forever.


	2. A New Beginning

Chapter 1—A New Beginning

Two years after the infamous disaster at the Opera Populaire, sixteen year-old Evelyn gazed up at the opera house from the street, feeling very small and alone. She wore a slightly tattered blue dress and worn shoes. But, she thought, at least she was clean and neat. Wiping an errant tear from her eye, she shook her head clear. She refused to allow the past to affect her future. She took a deep breath and climbed the stairs to the door.

The young girl finished her audition with a twisting of her lithe, willowy body and a graceful curtsy. The single member of her audience, the ballet director, was singularly impressed with her dancing ability; she noted, however, that at about 5'6", the girl was unusually tall for a ballerina. "And what are your previous experiences with ballet, Evelyn?" Madame Giry's firm French accent shook her out of a daze.

"I have been training since age seven in Italy, and I have performed for the past four years at the Teatro alla Scalla in Milan. And please, call me Evie. Evelyn is a beautiful name, but it is simply too formal for me," she answered smoothly. Evie managed to uphold her cool exterior, despite her fluttering stomach.

Madame Giry raised an eyebrow. "The Teatro alla Scalla? That is one of the best opera houses in Italy! Why would you leave?"

"I wished to…restart, Madame, for reasons of a purely personal nature; it had nothing to do with my career. Please do not ask me to explain further." Evie nervously whispered the last sentence, barely maintaining control of her voice. NO. She could not show emotion, not here.

The ballet director gave her a once-over, and smiled. "I see no reason why I would not hire you. As it is the off-season, we will begin training again within the next month, Mademoiselle…."

Evie realized she had not given her last name. "Daae. My last name is Daae." A small echoing sound, like that of escaping air, seemed to come from behind her. Not wanting Madame Giry to think poorly of her, she casually glanced over her shoulder to see that there was nothing behind her but an ornate, floor-length mirror. She turned back to the ballet director.

Madame Giry looked shocked. "Daae, you say? Are you of any relation to Christine Daae?"

Evie shook her head. "Not that I would know of Madame. I…" She leaned in and lowered her voice, afraid she would be overheard. "I never knew my father. But my mother…my mother gave me his last name. She was Austrian…she said he was a Swedish violinist, a kind man who never would have left us had he known about me," she finished, her confidence waning and her reserve crumbling.

The older woman pressed on. "And who is your mother?"

Her lip trembled. "She is—was—Elise Weisner." Please don't ask any more questions, she thought.

Madame Giry sensed the girl's distress, and asked no further questions. She immediately recognized the name of the famous Austrian soprano who had succumbed to consumption a few months previously. The soprano had been famous for her amazing vocal range (which covered more than three octaves!). She knew immediately that this girl, whether or not her father was who she thought he was, possessed talents far greater than those of a mere chorus girl. Smiling warmly, she took young Mademoiselle Daae by the hand. "Come, I will show you to your quarters." As they walked the corridors of the opera house to the dormitories, she took in Evie's appearance. Yes, upon further inspection, she was sure of it. The girl's posture, her build, the shape of her face, were all that of her father's side of the family. Even her hair, which cascaded in thick, wild curls down her back, surely came from her father. Her eyes were sapphire blue, however, (her mother had been easily recognizable by her startling blue eyes) and Madame Giry noted that in the candlelight her hair was lighter, shining more of a golden honey color than the rich chocolate coloring and reddish hues of her father's—that is, Gustav Daae's—hair. There was no mistaking it;

Evelyn Daae was none other than the sister of Christine Daae.

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A/N: I'd like to hear your thoughts on how I'm doing! I'm a first year in college, and I haven't really done any creative writing in about four or five years, so I'm open to whatever you have to say! Thank you for reading. 


	3. Roses are Red

Chapter 2—Roses are Red…

Evie barely managed to maintain control until Madame Giry closed the door behind her, exiting the girl's new living quarters. As soon as the latch clicked she collapsed on the bed in a sobbing fit. She had no one now—she missed her mother terribly, and her friends at the opera house in Milan. Evie buried her face into the pillow as she reflected on that life. She hadn't just been a chorus girl—she had been principle dancer, ever since she was fourteen. Her mother had begun coaching her in singing since she was first able to sing simple children's songs, but it was then that the Milan opera's lead soprano had begun a much more rigorous training of Evelyn's voice privately, almost as though she sensed her impending death. It was Elise's dream that her daughter take over as lead soprano at the Teatro alla Scalla when she was gone or had passed her prime. She always knew Evelyn had the same—if not greater—vocal capabilities that she possessed. Evie had sensed that her mother was ill, but the legendary soprano was always very formal with everyone, including her daughter (which was the only Evie insisted on her nickname—she realized it made her sound young and childish, but she had come to hate formalities with enough passion that she did not care). Elise never told her daughter how sick she really was; in the end, she slipped away unexpectedly, leaving Evie without warning. The shock of her mother's death left the talented young woman with no one to whom she could turn.

She eventually fled her old life, mostly because she could no longer put her heart into dancing; she could not become accustomed to dancing in the same theater she always had, but with someone else singing the lead. After a few months, she decided she needed a complete atmospheric change. The young ballerina sold everything her mother had ever touched and spent practically her entire savings in starting a new life and moving to Paris. Now that she was here, Evie struggled to remember why she had felt such a strong urge to leave all that she knew. She remembered Ignacio…

Bursting into tears again, she cried until she had no energy left with which to cry. Sitting on her bed, watching her tearstained reflection in the mirror, she began to sing something her mother had taught her. The song had no words; it wasn't even really a song, but a mere vocal exercise which tested both the high and low ends of her range. Still, it sufficed. It calmed and soothed her to sing, as she scaled from her lowest octave, her torso fairly vibrating, to the highest note she could manage. As she held this sweet, dulcet tone as long as she could, Evie imagined her mother there, coaxing her to maintain her steady pitch just a little longer, just a little longer…until she passed out from lack of oxygen and pure exhaustion, slumping to her bed.

Erik watched in amazement from behind one of the many two-way mirrors throughout the opera house. Even with his coaching, Christine had never been able to achieve such a wide range! Then the girl lost consciousness; deeply concerned, he quickly flipped the switch which allowed him to slide the mirror from its frame and was instantly at her side. Tenderly brushing an errant, golden curl from her face, he gasped. It was not only her surname which was familiar to him.

He would never forget the face of the woman which he had loved so dearly; this young woman resembled her almost exactly. She had the same creamy skin, of which he had caught merely a glimpse from behind the mirror in the dance studio where Madame Giry had conducted the job interview. The girl's delicate features, the shape of her long, graceful neck, her cascading curls…they were all like those of Christine Daae. Erik immediately felt the all too familiar fluttering in the pit of his stomach, the light-headed dizziness, the sweaty palms; everything he had felt in Christine's presence, he now felt anew. He shook his head. "She's NOT Christine…" Still…her voice was extraordinary. He simply could not pass her up as a student.

The next morning Evie awoke with the sun smiling gently down upon her, filtered through the rose-colored drapes in her quarters. Stretching after having slept well for the first time in countless months, she threw off the bedclothes and fairly leapt out of bed—and immediately remembered that she had been clothed and lying on top of the covers when she had fallen asleep (she was now wearing nothing but her chemise). She backed herself into a corner, and surveyed the room.

Evie had been practically raised in the opera house in Milan, and did not honestly enjoy playing with the other girls there. While they crooned over dolls and braided each others' hair, she played chase games and mud-wrestled with the stage-hands' boys until they cried Uncle. Although she appeared delicate, she was still very much a tomboy off the stage, and could still pin most grown men, some nearly twice her weight. She was by no means unprepared to defend herself; she glared at the room, daring someone to reveal themselves. Nothing moved.

Evie let out the breath she did not realize that she had been holding. "You're paranoid," she admonished herself. She tried to dismiss it, thinking that she must have woken up in the middle of the night and undressed, but was too tired at the time to remember it now. "No," she whispered softly to herself. "That can't be right…" Then she noticed the rose on the nightstand; the flawless crimson rose, which had not been there the previous night, was tied with a black satin ribbon…

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Reviews? Please? whimpers 


	4. A Climactic Encounter

Chapter 3—A Climactic Encounter

Three weeks later, the morning of the first day of training came around. Rising promptly at four in the morning, Evie donned her practice leotard and a robe (as it was considered unladylike to be seen in your leotard outside of the dance studio). Shaking off the uneasy feeling that she was being watched, she left the room and headed to the dance studio.

She was the first one there, Evie noted with satisfaction. Practice did not actually begin for another hour, but she enjoyed warming up with a single candle for lighting, surrounded by the mirrors reflecting her softly illuminated image into oblivion. She allowed her eyes to become accustomed to the dark, and then after a few warm up exercises, Evelyn danced. She didn't follow any routine in particular; she simply did what her body felt like doing. Her eyes fluttering closed, she breathed deeply through her nose and mouth, the woody scents of the room stirring her senses to life.

As if from all around her, an ardent, emotional violin melody echoed from afar. Evelyn felt swept away, her body moving slowly, with unwavering motions to its song. She imagined herself on stage, with all eyes on the audience glued to her. She imparted to them every emotion through bodily expression, leaping and twisting gracefully across the floor. Impassioned, she stretched her body to its full height until she was en Pointe, seeming to elongate toward the heavens from her toes to the very tips of her fingers.

The violin faded away into nothingness. Her eyes still closed, she gracefully folded her long, slender legs under her as she lowered herself to the floor. A melodic voice drifted through the room. "Sing now, my angel."

The violin started again, this time playing more slowly and sensually than she had ever heard before, the opening notes from Mozart's "Queen of the Night" aria. She picked up where he left off and began to sing with him, as though under a spell, and as one they accelerated up to speed, his echoing countermelody supporting the German opera lyrics flowing from her tongue as she remembered her mother singing it so long ago. Evie sprung to her feet, feeling the music, and as she better supported the sound, her coloratura tones came through with a crystal clear magnificence. She put her soul into the Queen's vengeance, feeling her own pain and anger with the world in every breath.

Erik was so astounded, he almost stopped playing. Evelyn was easily hitting notes that Christine had barely been able to reach on a good day; she flourished over them agilely and almost casually, as though this delicate-looking creature had been singing with such radiating dominance since the day she graced the world with her presence. Tendrils of her golden hair had come loose from their tight binding and radiated about her face; she appeared to be electrified, seething with power and rage. He fiddled furiously, desperately struggling to match her vigor and dynamics. As they came to the climax of the aria, she blasted the note from the roots of her being and held it there. Erik DID stop playing then, allowing her to experiment with the music, and continued when she moved on. He expected her to be exhausted by the end, but no—she surprised him by not only picking up the energy in her last few words, driving the tempo forward, but she took the last note up an octave and held it again, leading him through the last of her breath. Evelyn released with a violent downbeat, and he finished with a vicious flourish of his bow. They relished the silence then, their ears ringing with the resonance of their play, their breath coming in short, heated gasps, and the beaded sweat rolling down their faces like dew from the petal of a blossoming flower.

Erik realized then that she needed no instruction; she was ready to take on the lead soprano role with hurricane force. All she needed was a nudge in the right direction…

"Bravisima..." The spellbinding voice floated to her from all around once again. "I dare say you have greatly exceeded my expectations. I will contact you soon, and inform you of my plans for you," and with the echo of rustling fabric, he, whoever he was, was gone.

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This is all that I wrote in advance for now. I wanted to hold a little back and see what my reviewers had to say! Don't worry, there's more to come, but I'm going to look at apartments for next school year tomorrow, so I may not have much time to write until Saturday. It may be Sunday before I get anything else up, b/c I like to write a few chapters in advance so I have time to think about it a little longer. Anyways, thanks for the reviews (I enjoy reading them and I find them very encouraging), and thanks for helping make this a good writing experience for me! 


	5. Intimidations

Chapter 4—Intimidations

Evelyn opened her eyes as the lamps in the room flickered and the light slowly grew stronger. Madame Giry was at the door, turning the switch. Evie at first wondered if the ballet instructor had heard her singing, but dismissed the idea as she made no mention of it. "Are you ready for practice today?" The older woman smiled knowingly as Evie nodded her head in earnest.

"Oh yes!" she exclaimed, pure giddiness saturating her tone. "I may be a little rusty though…" Evie admitted ruefully.

"Don't worry," Madame Giry kindly comforted, "they all will be. Perhaps you should take a nice slow warm-up, no?"

"Oh I'm already…warm," she blushed, to her dismay. There had been something so sensual, so passionate about the time she had spent with the mysterious violinist. Evie's body tingled with energy and exhilaration, surged with a mystifying desire.

"Good. Keep stretching then, we will begin as soon as the other girls are here and warm."

Within ten minutes, most of the ballet company had arrived. Evie had introduced herself to most of them as she had passed them in the dormitories or when she had seen them on occasion at meals. Meg Giry, the principle ballerina, had always been the most welcoming of all the girls, and Evie was excited to see her dance, albeit a little nervous. She was not sure how she herself would fare, in comparison with the other girls.

They arrived one by one, discarding their robes and beginning their stretching exercises. Evelyn watched them through her eyelashes, her head angled to the floorboards as she stretched in the butterfly position, her knees making contact with the floor as she pressed them outwards. As each robe fell to the floor, Evie's heart sank a little lower. They were all so…tiny. She had always been very slender, a requirement of her profession, but these girls were commendably petite. That and she was at least three inches taller than the tallest of the other dancers. It was a wonder she had done so well in Italy, as tall dancers rarely succeeded professionally. Evie shook the doubt from her mind as Madame Giry began the practice.

Afterward, the ballerinas were measured for costuming in case their sizes had changed during the off season. Evie was pleased to note her size hadn't changed, despite not having trained for a few weeks. Then they all crowded into the dining hall for a late breakfast.

Evie was ravenous. She took her apple, juice and moderate plate of eggs, and moved to sit with Meg. She felt eyes on her, as a few of the other girls shot looks of disdain in her direction. She brushed it off as an evaluation of possible competition, until she overheard one of the girls snidely commenting to her friend, "Its no wonder her costume measurements were larger than everyone else's! If she keeps eating like that, she'll easily play the elephant's role in a 'Hannibal' production!" The ballerinas broke into peals of laughter, then realizing she had heard, muffled their cruelty behind perfectly petite hands. Evie flushed, and was about to do something she might regret when she felt a gentle hand upon her shoulder. She whirled to face the person who had dared touch her, and then blushed again, this time in embarrassment.

"Don't worry about them, dear, they're just jealous. You danced better and with more enthusiasm than any of them in practice today, so I expect you to eat all that to keep up your strength!" Meg Giry had come up behind her, unnoticed. She was about 5'3", and very thin, like the rest of the ballerinas. Evie noted with satisfaction, however, that she did not have the perfect ballerina physique either. Meg had an ample bosom in a profession where small-breasted women were more greatly admired. She smiled at Evie, then said, "Come sit here! I want to hear about what it was like to dance in Italy!" Evie managed a smile through her seething anger, and followed on Meg's heels.

She finished her meal rather quickly and excused herself. Evie closed the door to her bedroom, leaning against it with a sigh. Feeling grimy from her morning exercises, she discarded the robe carelessly in the corner and peeled off her sweaty leotard. Noticing the basin of warm water and a small cloth on the nightstand, a puzzled expression floated across her features before she put out of her mind the peculiarity of its sudden appearance. Wetting the cloth in the basin, she gently wiped her body free of the sweat and oils that had accumulated during practice. Wetting down her legs, Evie closed her eyes and took pleasure in the warmth of the water on her bare skin. A soft groan, sounding almost (but not quite) human, echoed from around her. Evie thought that maybe the woodwork of the building was creaking. She dried herself off and slipped on her chemise.

Evie thought about what the girls had said as she stood in front of the mirror in her chemise. She felt it in the pit of her stomach and the bottom of her heart that they were right. She had never had the perfect body type for a ballerina, but Evie had always been told the lines of her body were beautiful for her as an individual. She was just taller than most ballerinas…she'd gotten that from her mother. That meant she should weigh more, right? "Of course you should!" she admonished her reflection. Still, it wouldn't hurt to drop a few pounds, would it?

Promising herself she would simply moderate her diet a little more, Evie opened her wardrobe to don her sadly threadbare blue dress, and gasped in surprise. Her wardrobe suddenly contained eight new dresses, seven for everyday wear and one which was obviously intended for evening wear. She stared in awe at the vibrant fabrics, wondering if someone had perhaps delivered them to the wrong room.

"We could simply not have our prima donna looking like the common folk, now could we, Evelyn?" the warm, harmonious voice from the ballet studio whispered from all around.

"I'm only a ballerina…" Evie objected in a low, steady tone. Her stomach did flip flops as she looked around the room. No one was there. Facing the wardrobe again, she nonchalantly selected a classy rose-colored gown with traces of lace at the moderately low neckline and sleeves which tapered to the elbows, with lace accents there that would flare slightly and hang delicately from her slender arms. It was simple but elegant, accenting the curves of her body in a tasteful way and setting off the rose tones in her pale skin. Someone, Evie knew, was trying to intimidate her…and she wasn't about to let it work.

"Not if I have anything to say about it…which I assure you, I do. I have plenty to say," he breathed the last sentence warmly into her ear; he had suddenly appeared behind her.

Evie felt herself paralyzed with fear, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. He was so close… "Step away from me, sir," she growled.

"My dear Evelyn," he whispered in her ear, his gloved fingertips brushing the back of her neck as he moved her hair over one shoulder. She shuddered. "I will do as I please." One hand snaked around her waistline and rested there, applying slight pressure and holding her body tightly to his. Evie felt light-headed. His scent, like the air on a crisp fall morning, intoxicated her. She felt the left side of his face pressed to the right side of her profile as he ran his hand seductively back across her midsection.

Delighting in this new sensation, this delicious touch, she let the air rush into her lungs in a deep, warm gasp. Remembering where she was and what was really going on, she sobered quickly. "Don't touch me," she emphasized each word in a low, dangerous tone. Just as suddenly as he had been at her side, his hands and body were gone.

This time she heard him as he strode with strong, decisive steps back toward the wall of the room behind her, the wall with the mirror. He paused for a moment. "Auditions for the lead soprano role will be held next week. They are a mere formality in this theater, as no one ever shows up to challenge La Carlotta. I expect you to be there and I demand nothing less than perfection." Evie heard a curiously vague sliding sound and would have turned to look had she had the courage. The voice came from all around her once again. "We will continue to rehearse in the mornings before your ballet training. Tell no one." With that, he disappeared once again.

Evie stood trembling, rooted to one spot for several minutes. How had he known her full name? Everyone here called her Evie. She realized all of a sudden what he was demanding of her. He was not only asking her to sing in public, something she had never done before in her life, but that she take on the reigning prima donna! Surely, Evie thought, this would be a kiss of death if she failed…

Suddenly she was furious with herself. How had she allowed him to intimidate her so? Her normal reaction would have been to hook a leg behind his, causing him to stumble. Then, pivoting quickly on that foot, she would throw her weight against him and pin him to the ground, her hands at his elbows and her knees applying pressure downward and outward on his inner thighs; a maneuver she had learned from the stable boys in Italy when she was very young. She quickly mastered the tactic in their games of play, and it had proved useful, especially when warding off unwanted amorous advances. Once Evie had turned the tables like this, men usually left her alone, not liking the helplessness the position inflicted. Usually…

She thought she had left this feeling behind long ago, this dreaded trepidation coursing through her veins as a man attempted to assert his dominance over her. Only once before had a man laid his hands on her in such a manner, had maintained such power over her simply through the tone of his voice…

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For those of you who have been nothing but polite in your criticism, thank you. Its good to know that people do appreciate my fic, flawed though it is, and that nine times out of ten, the people I share my ideas with have class. You have no idea how much it means to me that you see me as a peer and are kind and understanding. However, in other news…. 

**Gwynevere1: **I am sorry to say, but this is not a good fic. It suffers from the worst abuses of the 'Mary Sue' cliche. Please, if you do not know what this is, go here to start:  
Mary Sues are mocked by many fan ficiton fans. They are particularly common in this phandom.Please try to read more quality fiction before you try writing fan fic again.

Ouch. My first flame. Hell, it's not just a flame, its a BURN! It's a shame someone who has been a member of the community for two years and has such strong opinions about others' writing has no fan fics of her own. In case any of you were confused, (because frankly, I was a little befuddled, being new to the fan fiction world myself) here's what a 'Mary Sue' cliché is. I had to go find it myself because your link didn't show up. You might want to check up on that, see if you're using the program right.

**4. What does the term "Mary Sue" refer to?**  
A Mary Sue is an utterly perfect character. She stands in for the author and performs every heroic feat known to fandom, often outdoing the main characters of the story. She is beautiful, fit, wise, and incredibly intuitive. She is either the best friend, lover, or unrequited love of the most handsome and desirable male character. She often has psychic or supernatural powers, which she uses in the most predictable and boring ways. She is introduced without preamble, has not a single weakness or flaw, and can kick the butt of the most powerful person in the story. In short, she's annoying and cliched. Many first-time authors make this mistake (I know I did) and live to regret it. It's possible to introduce original characters with depth and intelligence, but they must be carefully drawn and FLAWED - that's the key.

I admit I have been a little rushed with character development, and for that I apologize. It is something I need to work on. Anyways, I'm actually glad someone was rude and classless enough to get my attention; as I was working on this chapter, there are some aspects of Evie that I wanted to allude to but considered omitting because they would involve a lot of my time and are frankly rather unpleasant. I guarantee that not only will Evie not be able to "kick the butt of the most powerful person in the story," but she HASN'T kicked the butt of every man she's ever been across. Trust me, she'll show her spots…looks thoughtful strangely, just like all college boys...

Gwynevere1, whoever you are or think you are, thank you for your tactless and judging comments, all in the spirit of **constructive, polite, and respectful criticism**, no doubt. I will be more than happy to offer you the same courtesy when you write your first fan fiction.


	6. Crimes of Passion

A/N: Just a warning: although this chapter is not particularly graphic, there are themes of a violent and sexual nature (spelling it out: RAPE), so if you have any problems with that, be careful. I'm very sensitive myself to descriptions of such themes, and I really don't want to put an R rating on this, so I tried not to be very graphic. I hope this is ok.

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Chapter 5—Crimes of Passion

_Milan's warm summer breeze caressed her shoulders and neck as the open carriage bumped gently down the cobblestone street. The off-the-shoulder sleeves of her chiffon, champaign-colored gown flounced delicately, in time with the rhythmic clopping of the horses' feet. Her eyes fluttered closed as she delighted in the sweet embrace of the wildflowers' scent on her senses, and the comforting pressure of his left arm draped on her shoulders. _

"_Are you warm enough?" His heated whisper sent shivers down her spine. _

"_Yes, thank you, Ignacio," she breathed, unwilling to stir from her dream-like state. His hand drifted upward gently stroking her neck. He brought his other hand to the left side of her face, turning it firmly toward him. She willed herself to open her sapphire eyes and gaze into his, cinnamon and burning with desire. Her breath came in short, shaky gasps as he intoxicated her with his very being._

"_Marry me." The command, not a question, was almost cold and threatening. She was paralyzed. "Marry me, Evelyn." He repeated it, this time with a sense of urgency, pulling her to him possessively. The carriage came to a stop just outside of town in a wild, untamed field as he gave a deft tug on the horses' reins. The perfume of the wildflowers was overpowering now, making her mind feel fuzzy. His touch, once gentle and caressing, was now rough and forceful. His breath, she now realized, was full of spices, nearly overwhelmed by a strong, arid smell. Rum. _

"_You're drunk," she whispered, shocked. "Otherwise, you would never ask me." She gazed into the stable boy's eyes, pleading him to take her home._

"_Too many times you've pinned me, teasing me. Your hips hovering just above mine, your breasts just out of reach." he growled menacingly. He grabbed her left breast violently, the coldness in his touch and in his tone causing her to shudder. _

"_Don't touch me," she warned, backing away across the seat. She quickly ran out of room. "Ignacio, please…" _

"_You WILL marry me," he snarled. "You WILL be mine." With that, he lunged, pinning her into the corner between the back of the seat and the side of the carriage. The icy wood bit into her back, bruising it through her corset. She struggled to throw him off her, but he held her wrists above her head in his right hand. He thrust his knees between her legs, pinning them against the seat. She was helpless. _

_He bit her hard at the nape of her neck, until it bruised. Screaming, she thrashed about, writhing beneath him. "Ignacio, stop!" He ignored her. Enraged, she sank her teeth into the nearest part of him, his ear. She tasted blood, the saltiness of it filling her mouth. He howled in anguish. _

"_¡Puttanna!" he cursed her in his native Italian tongue, his blood running down the right side of his face, further staining his worn shirt. He brought his free hand in a closed fist down upon her, striking her brutally. Her head snapped back, slamming into the side of the carriage. Dazed, she could do nothing but watch as though from a distance. It was almost a dream as he unfastened his trousers with his free hand and lifted her skirts above her head. She could no longer see, but she felt it, as the very real, excruciating pain in her head and between her legs overtook her. Her eyes fluttered closed and she drifted away…_

The tears were very real now as Evelyn remembered the events which occurred not so long ago. Ignacio, her childhood friend and eventually her lover, had betrayed her trust. Worst of all, Evie realized, she hadn't been strong enough to defend herself when it really counted. Many times, he had snuck up behind her, wrapping a strong arm around her waist and kissing her neck, telling her he _needed_ her now. Every time, she had turned the tables on him, rendering him helpless and demanding that he take her to dinner first. If he had tried to taken advantage of her then, and never in her wildest dreams did she think he would, he would have failed miserably.

The stage world had agreed with her; she had once been a sultry temptress, a tease, her innocence long gone by the age of fourteen. But Ignacio had taken that (though never her virginity as Evie would not allow that until she was married), and no one else. She permitted patrons and opera admirers to escort her to formal balls and dinners, but had never ventured past a chaste goodnight kiss with them. They were merely fun; Ignacio was where her true passion had lain. In the dark, Evelyn had allowed his hands to roam, and while she too explored in curiosity.

Evie wanted to marry him, and she might have had he not been drunk when he asked. The only obstacle had been her mother—she had refused to allow her daughter to marry a mere stable boy. The daughter of Elise Weisner must be well taken care of, and have every comfort and luxury at her disposal as long as she lived.

Evie had been ready to elope when that fateful night came to be. Ignacio raped her mercilessly, and when she came to, she found herself alone in the field and lying in a twisted position on the cold, hard earth. Picking herself up, she had walked the two hour journey home. She collapsed the minute she burst into the door of the flat, sobbing in heartbroken exhaustion. It was then that her mother's servant uncaringly informed her that Elise had passed away moments before. Everything that had occurred that night accumulated in her mind and Evie came to the conclusion a week later that she no longer had a place in Milan.

She sobbed, terrified, not knowing what this man, this apparition, had in store for her.

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I love you guys! Read and review! 


	7. The Dream

Chapter 6—The Dream

Afternoon training was uneventful, as was dinner (although Evie decided against a second slice of the roast being served after a positively disapproving glance from one of the other dancers). Feeling rather worn from an emotionally and physically trying day, she climbed under the covers of her small bed early, hoping the next day would be better.

From behind the mirror, Erik observed silently when Evelyn returned to her bedroom. It could be no later than seven o'clock, and already she was going to bed! He watched as she slowly unfastened her dress, letting it slip down her shoulders to her hips, where it paused in its fall to the floor, barely resting on the soft curves of her graceful body. His breath caught in his throat when he saw her long, slender legs illuminated through the delicate fabric of her chemise, and stopped altogether when she turned toward the mirror to unpin her hair. Her delicate, creamy cleavage, already accented by the workings of her corset, was practically falling out as she liberated her golden tresses from their tight, imprisoning knot at the peak of her head. She was so close, Erik thought as the heat of desire spread through every fiber of his being. Just a flick of a switch and a few strides, and he could be right there, unlacing her corset, feeling her tender mouth gasping under his, taking her in his arms and…He shook himself out of the trance he had fallen into. As he had seen today, Evelyn was most definitely NOT Christine. She had a certain fieriness about her, as Erik had noted when she warned him not to touch her. She was not the soft-spoken, naïve girl that Christine was in every sense of the word—Evelyn was…older somehow, although she could not be any older than Christine was when he first met her. She seemed to be very grounded, seeing the world for what it was. Christine had always seemed to be dreaming, imagining the world's potential. It might even be, he had come to recognize, that she was afraid of something, that she felt defensive at every moment. What Evelyn had to be afraid of, Erik could not possibly imagine.

Feeling despicable for spying on her while she undressed, Erik forced himself to turn away until he heard the bedsprings squeak. He watched over her as she drifted off to sleep.

Evie knew it was a dream the minute Ignacio's face drifted across her mind. They were back in the field in Milan, this time walking amongst the wildflowers. "Marry me, Evelyn," he commanded, as he had so many times in her dreams.

"I can't…" she whispered. At that moment, the very earth beneath her began to shake and crumble, opening into a chasm between her legs and revealing the fiery pits of hell. The wildflowers at the edge of the pit wilted and burned.

"Marry me, Evelyn," Ignacio persisted, his eyes burning with desire and perspiration dripping down his face. "Marry me, and it'll all go away."

"I'm not ready," she pleaded. "Please, Ignacio. Please, can you wait?"

Ignacio's expression turned to one of disgust. "You're not worth waiting for." He waved his hand and the chasm opened further as he turned and walked away. Evie lost her balance and tumbled, the pain in her head and the pain between her legs becoming unbearable as she fell, screaming, to her death. She awoke on the floor in a tangle of sheets and blankets soaked in perspiration, still screaming.

Erik was by her side in an instant, cradling her head in his arms, and whispering soothingly to her. Evie sobbed into the crook of his arm, trying desperately to erase the dreams and memories that seemed burned into her heart. "Shhhh…" Erik murmured into her hair, frantically trying to think of something to say which would alleviate this unbearable suffering. "Your angel is here for you now."

Evie looked up into his cool, green eyes for the first time, her sapphire blue ones accented by the redness in them from crying. They burned into his for a moment, making him feel as though she could look into his soul and read his every thought. She spoke in a chilling whisper, her voice oddly smooth for someone so upset. "Angels don't come for ruined girls."

Erik found himself speechless. He longed to tell her otherwise, to tell her something, anything to stop her crying. Instead he just held her, rocking her slowly amongst the piled blankets on the floor as she cried herself to sleep in his arms.

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Sorry this one's so short! I've been having a little trouble getting from point A to point B if you know what I mean. Strangely, I was listening to Pink Floyd when I wrote this...don't ask me why! Haha. Anyways, I'll hopefully get in at least two more posts before midterms start next week...::GAG::


	8. Questions and Threats

An update? What's that? Oh YEAH, my story...  
Hahahaha, sorry guys, but I had writer's block for a while and then for a while and I SHOULD be studying for my Calculus midterm, but I think I may explode if I have to even LOOK at one more derivative...::shudders::

Anyways, like I said, I know where the story's going, but I can't seem to get there. So for a few chapters I might not be very good with updating on a regular basis, but I promise to try my best! Don't forget about me!

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Chapter 7—Questions and Threats

For the second time, Evie awoke, surprised to find herself back in her bed. The covers were neatly tucked around her, not in a tangled disarray as they had been on the floor. She remembered the nightmare vividly still; just thinking about it made her break out in a cold sweat. Shivering, she remembered…the man. The man whose warm, melodic voice had called to her, who had played his violin so sensually while she sang, who had touched her in such a manner that had given her goose-bumps, who had claimed to be an angel…he had been there.

Evie rolled out of bed, still turning over the events of the previous night in her mind. Who was this self-proclaimed angel? How was he always suddenly by her side? Most importantly, she knew, he must be using her—but for what purpose? Evie threw on a clean leotard, pinned up her hair, and padded through the halls to the ballet studio with a single candle for her warm-up. What if he was dangerous? The thought stalled her in her tracks. Realizing that her life could be at stake, Evie resolved to discover who this man was, and if he proved dangerous, to protect herself at all costs.

Erik watched Evelyn as she warmed up in the flickering candlelight, but he did not play his violin again. Her body twisted and turned, throwing odd shadows on the mirror he stood behind. Emotions played across her face; joy, sorrow, content. The illumination of the single candle made her face glow, her half-closed eyes reflecting its light. It was an exhilarating experience, watching Evelyn act out her every thought. At the conclusion of her songless dance, he called to her again. "Sing for me, angel."

Startled, she lost her balance, stumbling for a moment. Regaining composure, she glanced around the room, searching for the source of the voice. "Who are you?" Evie asked cautiously, suspiciously. Her tone was defensive. "Why do you call to me as such?" She received no answer. "What have you to hide?" she demanded.

Caught off-guard by this sudden inquisition, Erik hesitated briefly. At a loss for words, he gave the only answer that came to mind. "I have nothing to hide, my child. I am your angel of music."

Melancholy enveloped Evie's features. "I told you…angels wouldn't come for…for me," she said softly. Shaking her head, she regained her composure. "Who are you, really? What is your name?"

Erik's heart stopped. Should he tell her the truth? Remembering what had happened the last time he decided upon deception, he told her as much as he dared. "I am Erik…and I wish for nothing more than someone with true talent to sing in La Carlotta's place," he replied sincerely. No, this sounded too gentle, too meek. He needed her to fear him, to find him daunting and ominous. He could not show her any sign of weakness, he thought. "And," Erik added menacingly after a moment, "I will stop at nothing to be sure it is so."

Evie tossed her head defiantly, her golden locks whipping behind her. "And what, pray tell, do you plan to do if I refuse?" She knew she was skating on thin ice, but she refused to allow this man to have such control over her. A growl, which froze her insides, echoed from all around her.

"You will meet with…an accident," Erik hissed. Her rebelliousness infuriated him to no end. "Do not defy me, you insolent little girl. It is not wise to upset the Opera Ghost."

Only becoming bolder, Evie challenged mockingly, "A ghost, you say?" She laughed derisively. "Merely a ghost, I should have known! Well Mr. Ghost, I needn't worry about you! You're nothing but a lonely shadow with empty threats and an even emptier soul." If it had been anyone else, Evie would not have gotten so personal, but he greatly angered her. How dare he threaten her? "Why don't you come down here and show me how tough you think you are, Erik the Ghost? I'd be more than happy to set you straight on who is boss."

"That would be unfortunate. I would hate to mar such beautiful skin," Erik purred. Deep down, he was hurt by her cutting words, but he was certainly not about to let her know that.

A warmth spread through Evie's body at the complement. She paused to collect her thoughts before sighing in exasperation. "Look, if you really want me to sing, I will, but on MY terms, not yours. I do NOT answer to threats, do you understand me?"

"Perfectly," Erik compromised, for the first time in his life.

"Good," Evie acknowledged curtly. Her face flushed with emotion, she began dancing again, pretending to ignore him. She had let him win, she realized. He had wanted her to sing, and she had, in the end, agreed. This was not the end which she had meant to achieve; Evie had not been willing to concede to his victory, yet something in her heart wanted what he was proposing.

Maybe, she thought, we can both get what we want. Unexpectedly, from all around her, the violin began its echo; a violent, discordant tune, full of anger and frustration reached her ears.

Erik poured his vexation into his violin, his insides churning in anger with himself. How had he let Evelyn win? This little slip of a girl had gotten the best of him, demanding her own conditions. Grown men had cowered in the presence of the Opera Ghost, yet she stood up to him and even dared to mock him! Erik burned inside; it would take more than empty threats to make her obey…

Evie's eyes blazed with her own aggravation, as she abruptly and ferociously broke into a series of spins with his brutally aggressive triplets. Yes, she would sing, but her life was still hers, she thought as she leapt high into the air, her toes extending toward the walls in front of and behind her. She landed with a dull thud, barely making a sound. I still have control; his iron grasp will never imprison me, she promised herself. The dance ended as suddenly as it had begun, leaving them both winded.

"On my terms," Evie demanded breathlessly, repeating their earlier agreement for clarity, "and _only_ on my terms, will I sing. If you have something to say about it, ask me _nicely_; do not threaten."

A slight pause ensued before he interrupted the silence. "If my diva commands it," he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Evie could not help but smile, and cocked her head to one side. "Yes," she said softly, with the slightest hint of laughter as she matched his tone, "I do."

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Thanks for sticking with me guys, I enjoy ? Yeah, that works. I really like hearing from you all. R&R!! 


	9. The Audition

Wow! I know it's taken me FOREVER to update, but I had midterms the last couple of weeks and I've been really sick for the last week. Don't worry, I don't think I'll die before I finish the story, haha.

I was excited to not only read your positive reviews, but also the negative ones. I got some really good pointers and constructive criticism from a few of you, and I really appreciate that. I don't mind if you have suggestions for how I can improve...I just REALLY take offense to flames. They're just rude. Anyways, thank you for sticking with me, and I hope I don't disappoint!

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Chapter 8—The Audition

The rest of the week followed a very similar pattern to those first two days, and on Friday, Evie was ready for her afternoon audition for the lead soprano role. Having warmed up and practiced that morning, she felt confident in her abilities. Not having heard the infamous La Carlotta sing yet, she was not sure what she was up against; however, from the other girls' smirks and Erik's disdain for the woman, Evie got the feeling that she would not have any trouble replacing her if she gave it her best effort.

Monsieur Reyer had expected to be utterly bored for the next hour or so waiting for any person who wished to audition for a lead role, as he sat on the edge of the stage in the empty opera house. The Opera Populaire professed being an institution which gave any performing artist a chance to prove themselves; however, holding auditions had become mere procedure in recent years as no one dared challenge the reigning prima donna or the lead tenor. Occasionally a baritone or a mezzo performer showed up to try out, but it had been years since a soprano or tenor had had the courage to try to outstrip the dynamic duo who had seemingly cemented themselves into their respective roles. When Evie strode into the room, with her head held high and her gaze burning with confidence into his, she aroused the conductor's interest. He did not know this girl and was eager to hear new talent for a change.

"My name is Evelyn," Evie introduced herself, purposely leaving out her last name. Every time she mentioned that her last name was Daae, people went strangely silent and began whispering amongst themselves. She did not know why her name created such a stir, but for whatever reason, she preferred to keep that part quiet until Monsieur Reyer had judged her for her singing talent and not her name. "I wish to audition for the lead soprano part in the upcoming opera."

Monsieur Reyer barely suppressed his delight as he motioned for the girl to take her place on the stage. "Of course, Mademoiselle," he welcomed pleasantly, maintaining a professional tone despite his inner excitement.

Erik watched the audition from box five, with fingers crossed and hopes high. His eyes fluttered closed as the minimal string section began her chosen audition piece, the aria "Ebben? Ne andró lotana" from _La Wally_, and the music softly filled the vacant opera house. Evelyn's high, angelic voice joined subtly a few bars later, seeming to blossom from nothingness as she blended perfectly with the heavenly chords. Her clear, bell-like pitch warmed the very air, caressing Erik's senses. Yet, it was not a joyous feeling. Evie's tone was hauntingly mournful, as the gentle Italian surrounded him with her anguish. She spoke through the aria of pain, regret, and loneliness, of a flight from everything familiar into cold, snowy depths.

His eyes opened and for a brief moment Evie's gaze met Erik's, as she scaled downward, easily reaching lower tones which posed a level of difficulty for some sopranos. He nodded his approval, and her eyes, which betrayed a deeply internal nervousness and insecurity for just a moment, flickered back to Monsieur Reyer as he conducted. Feeling somewhat relieved that she was meeting Erik's high standards, Evie lost herself in the aria, remembering that she chose it not because it truly tested the range of her voice but because it was the only way to express her pain without feeling weak.

Her mother had always told her that the best singers were those who could manipulate the audience and make them feel in their hearts and souls whatever emotion they wished—anguish, longing, love, joy…vocal calisthenics should not get in the way of the _feeling_ behind the voice. Evelyn put her soul into the music, slowly beginning a crescendo near the end of the aria, scaling upward and reveling in the restrained power behind it. Finally, throwing all moderation to the wind at the top of the scale, she held the climactic note for as long as she could before releasing it in an almost violent vocal fall. Although nowhere the highest note in her range, it took a skilled performer to hit it with such power.

Erik opened his eyes again at the end of the aria, and observed as Evie's usually tall, proud form collapsed inward on itself, as if she no longer had the strength to hold herself up. She looked worn, emotionally spent. He tried to guess what Monsieur Reyer was thinking, while he replayed her performance in his own mind. He would probably compare her to Carlotta, Erik mused, as he went over the details. Evelyn rolled her r's slightly, as Italian singers usually did (he noticed this, surprised that she had not done it before when she sang in the ballet studio, but realized it was probably because she had been singing in German then), but not to the extent that Carlotta tended to exaggerate them. He also observed that while she showed her ability to control her voice to infinitesimal movements, nothing she did took away from the beautiful simplicity of her steady tone. However, Erik worried somewhat because she had not shown the true extent of her vocal range in choosing this particular aria—it would be Monsieur Reyer's and ultimately the managers' stylistic preferences which would determine whether or not she would get the part.

Evie trembled now, as she waited for Monsieur Reyer to evaluate her. For a fleeting moment, he allowed an expression of awe to pass over his face before it turned to stone. As he opened his mouth to speak, the doors of the opera house flew open with a slam, seeming to shake the very foundation of the building. A tall, dark-haired woman, who seemed to be covered in furs and lace and wearing at least a pound of make-up, stormed down the aisle toward the orchestra pit. On her heels were the managers Messrs. André and Firmin, whom Evie had only met once.

"Who ez dees?" the woman demanded.

"Señora, please, you know that we must hold auditions for every opera we perform. This little girl has every right to try out for a lead role," Monsieur Firmin pleaded with the angry woman. Evie bristled, but remained silent.

"Surely, she has no chance of surpassing your glorious talent, Diva," Monsieur André chimed in.

Evie was outraged. They had not even heard her sing yet! "Pardon me, Señora," she interrupted coldly. "I do not believe we have been introduced. I am Evelyn…" She hesitated to use her last name. "…Daae. And you are…?"

"DAAE!" the woman exploded. Evie knew instantly that she must be the infamous La Carlotta. "I know what dees ez! YOU!" She pointed an accusatory finger at Monsieur Reyer. "And YOU TWO!" Carlotta shouted, pointing this time at her managers. "You offend me! You conspire again to get reed of me, to replace ME weeth another leetle Daae girl!"

Another Daae? Evelyn's heart stopped. What could this mean?

"No, Señora! We would never dream of it!"

"Bella diva, you will always be the Queen of Song in this opera house!"

"You are our star!"

"Principessa!"

"The light in our hum-drum lives!"

"Gentlemen! Señora, please," Monsieur Reyer interrupted. He hated to demean this girl's incredible talent, but it was the only way. "Miss Daae," he paused, a feeling of dejá vu overcoming him at the mention of her surname, "has nowhere near the superior vocal ability of our reigning diva," the conductor lied through his teeth. Evie's heart sank, while Carlotta seemed satisfied. "However," he continued, "I do not want to waste her singing ability as a dancer in the ballet corps."

"Then what do you propose?" Monsieur Firmin demanded. "There is only one soprano singing role in _I Vespri Siciliani_!" So _that_ was to be the new opera, Evie realized.

"No plans have been made toward the production of that opera, Monsieur," the maestro said. "Perhaps we can put on an opera with a seconda donna role."

Carlotta immediately objected. "SHARE my gloree? Weeth dat leetle…"

Monsieur Reyer mentally skimmed his repertoire. "We could perform _Turandot_," he suggested. "Señora, you would play the beautiful Princess Turandot, naturally, while Miss Daae would be cast as the slave girl, Liú…whom your character orders to be tortured and eventually commits suicide in the third act," he added quickly, knowing this would please the diva. "Is this a satisfactory solution?"

Carlotta's eyes gleamed at the idea of torture, then took on an expression of mock-submission. "Ifa my managers are 'appy weeth dees arrangement…"

"Señora, we are satisfied if you are."

Carlotta paused excruciatingly as she decided. "Dees will do."

"Very well then," Monsieur Reyer wiped the sweat from his brow. "I should be able to procure the full score within the next week. We will begin rehearsals in two weeks' time."

Evie knew she should have been happy that she had been cast, but all she could feel was that she had failed. And what was _Turandot_? She was not familiar with this opera—she would have known it had her mother ever performed it in her life. Carlotta wrinkled her nose and gave Evie one last disdainful glance before turning on her heel and storming out the door. The managers stumbled behind her.

"Monsieur Reyer," Evie trembled. "You didn't have to change the opera for me."

The conductor looked at her in a kindly, almost fatherly, manner. "It would have been a crime to overlook your talent and excellent training, my dear. I'm sorry I do not have the power to give you what you deserve."

"Thank you, Monsieur, "she mumbled. "I'm truly grateful." As much as she loved dancing, Evie realized that it certainly wouldn't have been the same for her had she been rejected for a singing role.

Monsieur Reyer's demeanor instantly became professional again. "I've gone out on a limb for you. The Señora does not know it, but the part of Liú requires the ability to float high, pianissimo notes, which is something I have never heard her do. From the power behind your voice, I know your range is much greater than what you showed me here; but this role requires the ability to use that range like soft velvet, not just with force. Carlotta will not see that as taking a lot of skill because she revels in power, but in reality it takes more strength and control in your voice and in your lungs to sing your upper range softly."

Evie nodded, understanding what he meant. "I mean not to disappoint." Her brow furrowed with worry. In the operas she had practiced, the highest notes were always loud and ringing, not pianissimo. For once in her life, she did not know if she could accomplish this feat.

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I promise I'll try to update relatively soon! 


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